Cop Killer
by heisey
Summary: The squad investigates the murder of a detective from Jim's old squad.  Kind of a sequel to Meet the New Boss.
1. Chapter 1

**Cop Killer**

_Chapter One_

_Tuesday_

"Hey, Jim!"

A block from the 8th Precinct, Jim ordered Hank to stop and waited for Tom to catch up to him. "Mornin', Tom," he said, when his fellow detective was next to him. "Nice day, huh?"

"Uh – " Tom began awkwardly.

Jim stopped and turned toward him, tilting his head quizzically. "What?"

"Um, it's kinda cloudy, you know, looks like it might rain."

"Oh."

They resumed their walk to the 8th Precinct, Tom silently berating himself for reminding Jim about something he could no longer see. Jim didn't need that – especially first thing in the morning. Neither did he. Never seeing the sky again – he didn't want to think about what that would be like. "Damn," Tom muttered to himself.

As he walked alongside Tom, Jim smiled to himself, remembering why he had stopped commenting on the weather, after he lost his sight. The heat wave that had had the city sweltering in its grip for most of the past week had finally broken overnight. This morning, the cooler temperatures and the breeze that ruffled his hair were a welcome change. To him, that made it a nice day, but his sighted companion only noticed the cloudy skies.

Jim and Tom had just arrived at their desks and exchanged "good mornings" with Karen and Marty when Fisk came out of his office, looking somber.

"Who's up?" he asked.

"I am," Jim said.

"We've got a DOA," Fisk told the detectives, "found in East River Park under the Williamsburg Bridge." He frowned, then added, "Preliminary ID on the DOA is Greg Jennings. He's a cop."

"Damn," Tom muttered.

Jim started when he heard the victim's name, then asked, "Greg Jennings?"

"That's right," Fisk confirmed. "You know him, Jim?"

"I do – if it's the same Greg Jennings. I worked with him when I was at the 3-2."

"When you worked with Phil Krause?" Fisk asked.

"Yes," Jim replied. "He was Phil's partner back then."

"All right. Hit it," Fisk ordered, handing a slip of paper to Karen. He frowned as he watched his detectives depart. When Jim was briefly transferred to Lieutenant Phil Krause's squad three months before, he'd looked into Krause a little. Some of the things he'd learned were troubling. Still, he told himself, Jennings' death probably had nothing at all to do with Krause.

Patrol Sergeant Al Mangini watched as the four detectives approached him, Jim and Hank following the other three as they ducked under the crime scene tape. "Mornin'," he grunted, then continued, "DOA's a white male, his ID says he's Detective Greg Jennings, out of the 3-2. Dark hair, wearing a business suit. Two GSWs to the chest, left side and center. Looks like he bled out here, there's a lot of blood pooled under and around him. Found lying on his back, face up." He gestured toward the covered body. "There's a line of bushes next to the path here," he explained, "looks like he fell back into the bushes after he was shot."

Listening to Mangini's detailed description of the scene, Karen smiled to herself. Not so long ago, it wouldn't have occurred to him – or anyone at the 8 except herself – to give Jim the information he needed, unless he asked. Now, it seemed, even the cops outside their squad were taking Jim's blindness for granted. She knew this didn't necessarily mean they accepted Jim – she still overheard comments now and then, especially from newcomers – but these days, most of the cops at the 8 didn't give Jim's blindness a second thought.

"Who found him?" Jim asked.

"A guy out walking his dog early this morning," Mangini answered, "He's over there – by the bench on the other side of the path." He consulted his notebook. "His name's Barrett Skolnick, lives over on East River Drive."

Following Karen's whispered directions, "About twenty feet, two o'clock," Jim ordered Hank forward.

"Mr. Skolnick?" Karen asked as they approached.

"Yes."

"Detectives Bettancourt and Dunbar. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Of course."

Before beginning the interview, Karen quickly sized up Skolnick. Tall and thin with a slight stoop, he appeared to be in his late sixties. His hair was almost completely gray, but Karen could still see traces of its original dark brown color. He was casually dressed, in jeans and a T-shirt. His wire-rimmed glasses looked like trifocals. A large black dog – some kind of Lab mix, Karen thought – sat next to him. The dog started to stand up when he saw Hank, but Skolnick muttered, "sit," and pushed down on the dog's hindquarters. He sat down reluctantly, still quivering with the effort of containing his excitement. Hank eyed the other dog with interest but stayed at Jim's side.

"We understand you found the victim," Karen began, gesturing in the general direction of the DOA.

"That's correct," Skolnick confirmed.

"About what time?"

"It was around six, maybe a little before. It was just getting light."

"What were you doing out here so early?" Jim asked.

"It's my daily routine," Skolnick replied. "Barney here usually needs to go out first thing in the morning – he's almost fourteen – and I've always been an early riser. I'm retired now, but old habits are hard to break."

"Retired from what?" Karen asked.

"I practiced law in this city for almost forty years, young lady," Skolnick told her.

"You practiced criminal law?"

"Heavens, no," Skolnick shook his head and laughed. "Estate planning and probate. This is the closest I've ever come to a criminal case."

"How did you find the victim?" Jim asked.

"I was walking Barney, same as usual. When we passed that bench over there – "

Karen whispered to Jim, "about ten feet up, on the right."

"That's about right," Skolnick confirmed. "Anyway, Barney started acting strangely, pulling on his leash and whimpering. He seemed to want to go over there near the bushes, so I let him. That's when I saw – " He broke off, looking shaken.

"I understand this is difficult, sir," Karen said reassuringly. "What did you do next?"

"I could tell right away the poor man was dead."

"You didn't touch or move him?"

"No, no," Skolnick assured her. "I didn't get within five feet of him. As I said, I knew he was dead, so I grabbed Barney's collar and dragged him back to the path with me. Then I called 911."

"Did you see anyone in the area at the time?" Jim asked.

"No, it's usually pretty deserted at that hour. The sun was just starting to come up."

"OK. Thanks for your time. The sergeant has your information, right?"

"Yes."

"If you think of anything else, please give us a call." Karen handed Skolnick her business card, and she and Jim started to leave.

"I will." Skolnick paused for a moment, then asked, "Detective – Dunbar, is it?"

Jim turned back to face him. "Yes."

"Your dog, is he a guide dog?"

"Yes, he is."

"He's so beautifully trained. I'm impressed. The only thing I ever managed to train Barney to do was not to pull on his leash – and I wasn't very good at that."

Jim smiled briefly, then merely said, "Thanks for your time."

When they rejoined Tom, Marty, and Mangini, Marty told them, "Crime scene and the ME have just arrived. We can cover things here."

"OK," Jim agreed. "We'll head out, then, talk to the widow and his partner."


	2. Chapter 2

**Cop Killer**

_Chapter Two_

Karen parked the unmarked at the curb a half block from Greg Jennings' address. "We're here," she said. "Has the widow been notified yet?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah. Boss said the duty captain told her as soon as we confirmed the ID."

Karen gave a sigh of relief. "Thank God." She got out of the car, and Jim and Hank followed her along the sidewalk, then up the stairs to the front door. A woman opened the door almost immediately after they rang the bell. She appeared to be in her late forties. Time and childbirth had thickened her body, but she would still be attractive, Karen thought, if not overcome by grief. Her dark auburn hair showed only a few streaks of gray, but it hung limply to her shoulders, as if the life had suddenly gone out of it. Her green eyes were dull and red-rimmed. Her fair complexion was splotchy. Karen guessed her makeup had come off in the course of the morning. Or maybe she hadn't bothered to apply any, after getting the news about her husband's death. She was already dressed in black – a loose short-sleeved top and slacks. She clutched a crumpled tissue in her left hand.

"Mrs. Jennings?" Karen asked. The woman nodded. "Margaret Jennings," she said, stepping back to allow the detectives and Hank to enter after Karen introduced herself and Jim. She did a double-take when Karen introduced Jim but said nothing. Karen, Jim, and Hank followed her to the dining room, where they took seats at one end of the table. Most of its surface was already covered by casserole dishes, plates of cookies, and wrapped oblongs which Karen guessed were loaves of banana bread – the offering her mother always took to bereaved neighbors and friends. As they passed through the living room, Karen noticed several florists' arrangements on the coffee table.

Before Karen could ask her first question, a teenaged girl appeared in the archway between the dining and living rooms. She was slender, with the long-limbed coltishness of adolescence. She had her mother's green eyes and auburn hair, worn long and straight. Karen thought her hip-hugging jeans and midriff-baring top probably revealed more of her than her father would have approved of. Margaret noticed her daughter. "My daughter, Rebecca," she said, then nodded in Karen and Jim's direction, "Detectives Bettancourt and Dunbar."

Rebecca stared at Jim for a moment, then mumbled a "hello" and looked at the floor. Then she looked up, toward her mother and said, "Uh, mom, I'm going over to Amber's for a while, OK?"

Margaret thought for a minute before replying. "All right," she said, "but be sure you're back by one-thirty. Your brother will be here by then, and we're going to pick up Nana and Grandpa at the airport."

"OK."

"And don't go anywhere except Amber's without calling me."

"Sure, mom." Rebecca crossed to the dining table and kissed her mother before leaving.

After they heard the front door close behind her, Margaret shrugged. "Teenagers."

"How old is she?" Jim asked.

"Fifteen. She's trying to prove how grown-up she is by acting like it isn't affecting her. It's not gonna be pretty when it finally hits her. She's always been her daddy's girl." Her voice broke as she finished the sentence, and Karen handed her a tissue to stanch a new flow of tears.

After Margaret composed herself, Karen began, "We're sorry to intrude – "

Margaret interrupted her. "There's no need to apologize, Detective. I've been – " Her voice broke again. She swallowed hard before continuing. "I was married to a cop for twenty-six years. I know you have a job to do."

"Was there anyone you know of who might have done this?" Jim asked. "You know, a suspect he collared? Maybe someone had threatened him?"

"I wouldn't know about anything like that," Margaret replied. Seeing Jim's questioning expression, she explained, "Greg and I had an – agreement. He didn't tell me much about his work, you know, his cases. It was easier that way. I didn't have to think about – what could happen." She glanced briefly at Jim before her tears began to flow again.

"I know this is difficult," Karen began after a moment, "but was your husband having problems with anyone outside his work, that you know of?"

Margaret shook her head. "No."

"Did he owe anyone money?"

"No. I mean, there's the mortgage and bills, and our son's college – he's a junior at Penn. It's expensive, but with his scholarship and student loans, we were managing. Greg is – was – really good at handling our finances." She frowned and looked away.

"Any personal problems?" Karen prodded gently.

"No." Margaret turned to Jim. "You're married, aren't you, Detective Dunbar?"

"Very," Jim replied, holding up his left hand.

"Then you already know this. The thing that causes problems in a cop's marriage – any cop's marriage – is the job. It's always the job." Jim nodded gravely. "But I learned to deal with it, we both learned to deal with it. And I think we were happy." She reached for the tissue box. After a moment, she spoke to Jim again. "You know, Detective Dunbar, I remember the day you got shot. I remember thinking about your wife and the wives of the other men who were shot. But mostly I was thinking how relieved I was that it wasn't Greg. But it's just a matter of time, isn't it? Now it's my turn."

Karen glanced over at Jim. She could tell he didn't know what to say, any more than she did. Finally she said, "We're very sorry for your loss, Margaret. We'll be going now. Thank you for your time." Jim stood and signaled to Hank, and they followed Karen out of the house.

* * *

Jim felt unexpectedly tense as he entered the squad room at the 3-2. He hadn't set foot in the place since he transferred to the 3-4, and he'd vowed then never to return. But, he told himself, without Phil Krause's oppressive presence, it wasn't the same place anymore. He gave a silent sigh of relief.

A man's voice, slightly accented, called to them from their right. "Detective Dunbar? Detective Bettancourt?"

Karen turned to see a stocky man of about forty walking toward them. According to the clock on the wall behind him, it was only 11:05 a.m., but he looked as if he'd already pulled a double tour. His thick dark-brown hair was uncombed and looked dull and lifeless under the squad room's fluorescent lighting, His eyes were red and tired. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he had loosened his tie. His suit jacket hung on the back of a nearby chair. "Detective Herrera?" she asked.

"Ray Herrera," he confirmed, extending his hand. Karen shook his hand. "Karen Bettancourt."

Herrera looked at Jim in confusion. After a moment, Jim extended his hand. "Jim Dunbar."

"Good to meet you," Herrera replied. "We can talk in the interview room."

When Jim and Karen were seated at the table across from Herrera, and Hank was settled next to him, Jim took the lead. "This is a terrible thing," he said, shaking his head sadly.

"Yeah," Herrera agreed, "I still can't believe it." He looked at Jim for a moment, then asked, "You worked with Greg, didn't you, Jim?" he asked.

"Yes, I did," Jim confirmed. "Must be ten years ago."

"When you – uh, you know – when you got shot, Greg mentioned that he knew you." When Jim didn't respond, Hererra continued. "I guess you didn't work with him too long. Greg said you transferred out of the squad after a coupla months."

"That's right. I started working nights – needed the extra money, you know."

"Yeah, I know how that is," Hererra agreed.

"I didn't get to know Greg real well, but he seemed like a good guy," Jim said noncommittally.

"He was – the best," Herrera asserted, perhaps a little too emphatically.

Karen spoke up. "Do you have any ideas for us – about who did this?"

Herrera hung his head. When he looked up again, he said, "I've been racking my brains all morning. I just don't know." He gave a frustrated sigh.

"Any perps or suspects we should be looking at?"

"I dunno. I mean, we've put a lot of guys away, but there's no one in particular who stands out, you know?"

"When I worked here," Jim observed, "there was a lot of gang activity. That still the case?"

"Oh, yeah," Herrera told him.

"Any chance some banger took revenge for putting away one of his homies?"

"It's possible, but – I dunno. Like I said, I can't think of anyone in particular."

"No threats?" Karen asked.

Herrera shook his head again. "Not that I know of."

"When did you last see or talk to Greg??" Jim asked.

"Here, last night. It must've been around midnight. We were late getting back from Central Booking and still had to finish up our fives on the collar we made yesterday. Greg got a call and took off. That's the last I saw of him." Herrera bowed his head.

"Who was the call from?"

"I have no idea. He didn't say. He just hung up the phone and said, 'I gotta go, see you tomorrow,' somethin' like that."

"Did you hear any of the conversation?"

Herrera shook his head. "Not really. I was just trying to get my fives finished so I could get outta here."

"You have any idea who it might've been?"

"Yeah, I thought maybe it was Greg's snitch – a Joey Maldonado. This morning, after I heard, I tracked him down. I had to do somethin', y'know?" Jim nodded. "Joey claimed he didn't call Greg, said he was playing pool with three other guys until three o'clock this morning."

"Did you check it out?" Karen asked.

"Yeah, I did. The three other guys all say Joey was playing pool with him, just like he said. And there's somethin' else – "

"What's that?"

"The call – the one just before Greg took off – came in on the phone on his desk. Joey always calls him on his cell. So I'm thinkin' it wasn't Joey who called."

"We'll check it out," Jim told him. "Anything else?"

"Well, there is one other thing," Herrera began slowly, "but I dunno, it might not be anything . . ."

"OK," Karen prompted him.

"Greg seemed kinda worried, the last coupla days."

"Do you know what he was worried about?"

Herrera shook his head. "No. When I asked him if something was worrying him, he wouldn't say, he just blew me off."

"He wasn't having problems with anyone?"

"Not that I know of." He looked away, not meeting Karen's eyes.

"OK," Jim said, "we'll look into it, see what we can find out."

"How's Greg's wife, Margaret?" Hererra asked. "You talk to her yet?"

"Yes," Karen replied, "Just before we came here. She's pretty broken up."

Herrera frowned and looked away. "Damn. She's a real nice lady, you know. It ain't right that she has to go through this."

"I know."

"Was she any help – you know, about finding who did this?"

"Not really. She didn't seem to know much about Greg's work."

"That's right," Herrera confirmed. "Greg said it was better that way. She didn't worry so much. And she don't need to know about all the shit we have to deal with, right?"

"You're probably right," Karen agreed. Jim looked thoughtful but said nothing.

"I got all the information back at my desk," Herrera said, "about Joey and the three guys he was playing pool with. I also got his cell phone number so you can check if it was him who called."

"Thanks," Jim said, standing and slapping his thigh to signal Hank.

When they emerged from the interview room, Lieutenant Neil Snyder came out of his office and introduced himself to Jim and Karen. "You're gonna need this," he said, handing a file folder to Karen.

"Thanks, lieutenant."

"What's that?" Jim asked.

"Greg's jacket," Snyder replied. He looked at Jim a little doubtfully, then added, "If there's anything else you need, just name it."

"We're gonna get the son of a bitch," Jim assured him.

"Yeah." Snyder replied noncommittally as he turned and headed back to his office.

Herrera crossed to his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers, which he handed to Karen. "These are my notes on Joey," he told her. "You find out anything, anything at all, you'll let me know, right?"

"You got it," Karen said before she and Jim turned to leave.

Downstairs, Karen stopped short in the entrance to the station house. "Damn," she said, "it's pouring."

Jim listened for a moment and sniffed the air. "Yeah," he agreed, "Tom told me it looked like rain."

"We're gonna get soaked just getting to the car."

"No reason for both of us to get wet," Jim told her, "I got it." He held out his hand.

She recognized his deadpan expression and smothered a laugh, then pulled out the car keys and put them in his outstretched hand. "Here you go, Jim."

They both burst out laughing.

Jim was silent on the ride back downtown, listening to the ebb and flow of the raindrops drumming on the roof and hood of the car and the swish of the tires on the wet pavement. Even something as ordinary as a rainy day was different, now. When he could see, a rainy day was just an inconvenience to be dealt with. It still was. But since losing his sight, he'd learned how the sounds of the falling raindrops revealed the textures and shapes of the things around him. Sometimes he even liked rainy days.

* * *

Fisk came out of his office when he saw Karen, Jim, and Hank returning. "Did you get anything from his widow or partner?" he asked as he crossed the room and sat down on the desk opposite Jim's.

Jim frowned. "Not really," he said. "The widow said he didn't talk to her about the job, and his partner couldn't give us anything concrete to go on. He said Jennings seemed worried, the last coupla days, but he wouldn't tell him what the problem was."

"I don't think it was a personal problem," Karen said. "His wife said they weren't having financial problems, and they were happily married."

Marty gave her a disbelieving look. "You can't be serious," he scoffed, "no cop is happily married." He shot a look at Jim, which was lost on him.

Karen ignored Marty's comment and picked up Jennings' jacket, which she had placed on her desk. "What's that?" Marty asked.

"Jennings' jacket."

"Have you looked at it?"

"Not yet."

"I'll take a look," Marty offered, reaching for the file.

"Help yourself," Karen replied with a shrug. Marty took the folder and began paging through it.

"So do you have anything to go on?" Fisk asked.

"Ray Herrera – that's Greg's partner – said Greg got a call last night and took off. That was the last he saw of him," Jim said. "We need to find out who made that call."

"Did Herrera have any ideas about that?"

"Yeah, he thought it was Greg's snitch – a Joey Maldonado – but he talked to Maldonado, and he claimed he didn't call Greg last night. We'll get the phone dumps and talk to him again."

"OK. Anything else?"

Karen spoke up. "We need to look for anyone who had it out for him – perps he put away, that kind of thing."

Tom groaned. "Oh, man. Do you know how many – "

He broke off when Marty suddenly sat up straight, holding up Jennings' jacket, and said, "I got something here."

"What's that?" Fisk asked.

"Jennings was involved in a shooting about ten years ago – a Calvin Marshall. It says here Marshall ended up paralyzed. That would be a hell of a motive." He glanced over at Jim, who was leaning forward in his chair. "Hey, Jim, wasn't that around the time you were at the 3-2?"

"Yes, it was," Jim confirmed.

"Do you remember this Calvin Marshall?"

Jim thought for a moment before answering. Finally he said, "Yeah, I do." He rested his chin on his folded hands, remembering.


	3. Chapter 3

**Cop Killer**

_Chapter Three_

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Detective Phil Krause trudging wearily into the squad room at the 32nd Precinct. He reached his desk and sat down heavily.

"You OK, Phil?" Detective Bob Franks asked him.

"Yeah," Krause grunted.

"What happened?"

Krause shook his head. "Damn punk had a gun," he said. "We heard over the radio that patrol was in a foot pursuit of a suspect in that liquor store robbery over on 140th. We were just around the corner from the location. When we got there, Donovan had the suspect cornered in the alley – "

"Where was his partner?" Jim asked.

Krause gave Jim an irritated look before answering him. "Couldn't keep up. You know Phillips, he ain't gettin' any younger. Anyway, like I was sayin', Donovan had the suspect cornered in the alley. When he saw us, he went for a gun. Greg drew his weapon and fired."

"Sounds like a righteous shooting," Franks commented. "How's Greg doin'?"

"You know Greg, he's fine." Krause scowled. "But he's off the job until the guys with 20-20 hindsight figure it all out."

"Was the perp DOA?" Jim asked.

"No, unfortunately," Krause told him. "They took him to the hospital. But he could still croak, I guess."

"We can always hope," Franks observed. He and Krause both laughed.

Jim didn't join in. After a moment, he said, "Still, it's better for Greg if the guy doesn't die, right?"

"Yeah," Krause conceded grudgingly.

"So is the guy good for the robbery?"

"Looks like it. I searched him after he was down. He had a Tec-9 in his waistband and a nickel bag and a wad of cash in his pocket. The cash was mostly in small bills, like what was taken from the liquor store."

"Definitely a righteous shooting," Franks asserted.

"Damn right."

"Do we have an ID on the perp?" Jim asked.

"His name's Calvin Marshall.," Krause told him.

"I'll run him for priors," Jim offered.

"You do that."

The lieutenant emerged from his office. "Phil, my office, please." Krause pushed himself up from his desk and followed the lieutenant into his office.

Jim leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his chin, wondering if the shooting was going to interfere with his planned transfer to the night shift. Ever since he walked in on Krause planting drugs in a suspect's apartment three weeks before, he'd known he had to get out of Krause's squad. If he lost this chance, there was no telling when there might be another one.

* * *

The following day, the lieutenant emerged from his office at mid-morning. "Hospital called," he announced, "looks like Calvin Marshall's gonna make it – "

"Too bad," Krause interrupted, "now the taxpayers gotta pay for his trial."

The lieutenant continued, "But they think he's gonna be paralyzed from the waist down – the bullet hit the spinal cord."

"Damn," Jim muttered under his breath.

Krause gave him an irritated look, then declared, "Serves him right, the fuckin' punk."

"What've you got on the robbery?" the lieutenant asked.

"The lab was able to lift some prints from the Tec-9 we found on Marshall. They came back to him," Krause replied, then added, "No surprise. And they said the gun was stolen a coupla months ago."

"What about the witnesses?"

"The clerk and two customers all gave us descriptions that are consistent with Marshall's height and weight," Franks said, "and they all saw a gun that could've been a Tec-9. But none of them got a look at the guy's face – he was wearing a mask."

Jim spoke up. "Marshall had about $240 on him. The clerk says there was about $200 in the register, so that fits."

"When can we talk to this mutt?" Krause asked.

The lieutenant shook his head. "I dunno, maybe a coupla days. The doctors don't want him to be interviewed until he's stable."

"Shit," Krause said. "But I guess he ain't goin' nowhere."

"What about Greg?" Franks asked.

"I talked to him first thing this morning," the lieutenant replied. "He's doin' OK, just wants to get back on the job."

"When d'you think that'll be, boss?" Jim asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is One PP likes to take its sweet time with these things. He'll be back when he's back." The lieutenant shrugged, then turned and headed back to his office.

When the office door closed behind the lieutenant, Krause stood up. "I'm gonna canvass the area around the liquor store again. Someone must've seen this mutt."

"You want me to come with you, Phil?" Franks asked.

"No, thanks, I got it." He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, put his notebook in the inside pocket, and strode out of the squad room.

He returned three hours later, looking discouraged.

"You get anything?" Franks asked.

"Nope." Scowling, Krause lowered himself into his chair.

"We'll keep at it," Franks assured him.

"Yeah." Krause flipped open his notebook and began writing up a report.

Only a half hour was left on their tour when the lieutenant came out of his office. "Front desk called," he said. "There's a guy downstairs who claims he saw the guy who robbed the liquor store. They're bringing him up."

The three detectives exchanged looks. "I'll take it," Krause said, before either of the others could speak.

"OK," the lieutenant agreed and returned to his office.

Krause stood up when a uniformed officer appeared, escorting a civilian. He looked around the squad room apprehensively, his gaze coming to rest on Krause. "What's your name, sir?" Krause asked him.

"Walker – uh, Tyrone Walker," he replied.

"This way," Krause said, gesturing toward the interview room.

Jim and Franks watched from the observation room as Krause questioned Walker. His story was straightforward. He saw a man loitering a few doors down from the liquor store shortly before the robbery. His description matched the witnesses' descriptions of the robber. He'd been "over in Jersey" for the past couple of days and didn't hear about the robbery until he came back to the City.

Krause emerged from the interview room, closing the door behind him. "Let's put a six-pack together, see if he can identify Calvin," he told Franks and Jim as they came out of the observation room. A half hour later, they had assembled the photo line-up, including a picture of Marshall, and Krause re-entered the interview room. He came out a few minutes later, looking triumphant. "Bingo," he said.

"He ID'd Calvin?" Jim asked.

"Damn right," Krause confirmed as he headed for the lieutenant's office.

* * *

Krause hung up the phone and turned toward Jim. "Dunbar, you're with me," he snapped. 

"What's up?"

Krause stood up and put on his jacket. "That was the hospital. The docs have finally decided to let us talk to their precious patient." He started toward the stairwell, then looked back at Jim and added sarcastically, "Only took 'em three days. C'mon, get your ass in gear." Jim followed him out of the squad room, wondering why Krause was including him in the interview.

He learned the answer as they were walking down the hospital corridor to Calvin Marshall's room in the jail ward. "This is my interview," Krause told him, "you're only here to take notes. You got that, hotshot?"

Jim nodded. "Whatever you say, Phil," he replied sarcastically.

He followed Krause into Marshall's room and stopped short when he saw Marshall. He wasn't what Jim expected. According to his sheet, he was 22, and the witnesses had described him as about 5'10" with a medium build. Here, in the hospital bed, he seemed younger and smaller, dwarfed by the medical equipment surrounding him. Tubes and wires connected him to an IV and the monitoring equipment standing next to the bed. At the foot of the bed, a clear plastic tube led to a bag containing yellow liquid. A triangular trapeze hung above the head of the bed. Marshall's skin, which Jim guessed was a medium café-au-lait color at other times, had a yellow cast. His face was pinched and drawn. He looked anxiously back and forth from Krause to Jim as they entered.

"Calvin Marshall?" Krause demanded.

Marshall nodded warily. "Yes?"

"Detectives Krause and Dunbar. We'd like to ask you some questions." When Marshall didn't respond immediately, Krause glared at him. Suddenly, he muttered, "Dammit." He turned to Jim. "I gotta take a leak. Don't let him go anywhere."

Jim didn't bother to reply, but simply watched as Krause walked rapidly toward the door.

When Krause had disappeared into the hallway, Marshall spoke up. "Detective?"

"Yes."

"That other detective – "

"What about him?"

"He was there, when I got shot."

"Yes, he was," Jim confirmed.

"You gotta help me, man," Marshall pleaded, "I didn't do no robbery. I didn't have no gun."

"We found a gun on you," Jim reminded him.

"No, no," Marshall insisted, "I never had no gun. That other cop, the one who just left, he planted it on me after I was shot. He must've thought I was passed out or somethin', but I wasn't. I saw him with the gun in his hand, and then he stuck it in my pants."

"You expect me to believe that?" Jim asked.

"It's the truth, man, I swear it. I was set up. I didn't – " Marshall broke off when he saw Krause re-entering the room.

"Having a nice chat, are we?" Krause asked.

Before Jim could respond, Marshall said, "I got nothin' to say to you, man. I want a lawyer."

Jim looked at Krause and shrugged. Krause spun on his heel and stomped out of the room. Jim followed. When they reached the elevator, Krause rounded on him. "Nice work, Dunbar. I never seen a perp lawyer up so fast. What'd you say to him?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah, right." Krause gave him a disgusted look. They rode back to the precinct in stony silence.

* * *

Jim's transfer finally went through the following week. He soon learned nights were the 3-2's busiest time. In spite of all the new cases he caught, he was unable to forget the fear and desperation he'd seen on Marshall's face. And he wondered if Marshall's claim was true. He'd been a cop long enough to be skeptical of stories like his. He'd heard plenty of them. But it wouldn't be the first time Krause had pulled something like that. One morning, he stayed at the precinct after the end of his tour and sought out Officer Brad Donovan, who had been chasing Marshall on foot before Krause and Jennings arrived on the scene.

When he was certain the locker room was empty, except for himself and Donovan, Jim walked over to Donovan's locker and explained he was doing "some follow-up" on the robbery.

"Yeah, sure, what d'you need?" Donovan replied.

"I was wondering," Jim began, "did you see the guy's gun?"

"Yes, I did – after," Donovan said, "and he was definitely going for his waistband. One of the detectives – Detective Krause, I think – yelled that he was going for a gun, and Detective Jennings fired. He saved all our lives."

"OK. What happened next?"

"After the suspect was down and Detective Krause cuffed him, he ordered Detective Jennings and me to go back out to the street and wait for back-up to arrive."

"So you didn't see what happened after that?" Jim asked.

"No. Is that a problem?"

"No," Jim assured him, "just trying to get all the details straight. Thanks for your time."

"Any time. Is there anything else, Detective? I need to get to roll call."

"No, nothing else. Thanks again."

Donovan hurried out of the room, leaving Jim leaning against the row of lockers, thinking. After a few minutes, he shook his head resignedly and headed home. All he had was suspicions. He had nothing concrete to take to his boss, or to IAB. Soon, new cases demanded his attention, and Marshall's pleas gradually faded from his consciousness. Eventually, One PP and the DA ruled the shooting was justified, and Jennings went back on the job. Six months later, Marshall was convicted of armed robbery and sentenced to prison. That was the last Jim had heard of him – until now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Cop Killer**

_Chapter Four_

"You with us, Jim?"

Jim raised his head when he heard Marty's voice. "Yeah," he said. "Just – thinking."

"So what's the story with Calvin Marshall?"

Jim shrugged. "Basically, he fit the description of a robbery suspect, patrol had him in a foot pursuit, Greg and Phil Krause were in the vicinity. When they showed up, he went for a gun, and Greg shot him."

"He had a gun?" Tom asked.

"Yeah, they found one on him after he was down."

"Did you work the case?"

"Not really. I had already put in for a transfer, so Phil had me doing scut work."

"You ever meet Marshall?"

Jim nodded. "Yeah. Phil took me along when he went to the hospital to interview him." He paused, thinking. "I was supposed to take notes, but it turned out to be a waste of time – Calvin lawyered up right away."

Jim frowned, recalling his encounter with Marshall. He still remembered the fear and desperation he'd seen in Marshall's eyes when Marshall pleaded with him at the hospital. At the time, he couldn't imagine what it was like for Marshall to hear he would never walk again. Now he didn't have to imagine it – he knew.

"What happened to him?" Karen asked.

"Like Marty said, he ended up paralyzed – paraplegic, I think. Last I heard of him, he was convicted and went to prison."

"I'll call Corrections," Karen volunteered, "see if he's out."

"OK," Fisk said as he headed back to his office. "Let me know what you find out."

Ten minutes later, Karen hung up the phone. "Hey, guys," she said, "Corrections says Calvin did his bit at Dannemora – and he paroled out two weeks ago."

"Damn," Marty said, "we gotta find this mutt."

"You really think he could've done it?" Tom asked. "I mean, he's in a wheelchair, right?"

"You don't have to stand up to fire a gun," Karen pointed out.

"Yeah," Marty agreed. "It could've made it easier for him. Could be he took Greg by surprise – especially if Greg didn't recognize him."

"He could have come up with a way to do it," Jim said. "There's always a way."

"I guess you'd know," Tom said doubtfully. Jim pressed his lips together and turned his head away from the others.

"We got an address on this guy?" Marty asked.

"Not yet, but they gave me the number of his parole officer – he should have it," Karen said, picking up the phone. When she hung up, she said, "Got it. His P. O. says he checked in when he got out, but he isn't scheduled to check in again until next week."

"Fat chance of that," Marty observed.

"I know," Karen agreed, "I got the addresses of his family members and known associates, too."

"OK. Let's get the boss up to speed, then get going," Jim said.

* * *

Fisk came out of his office when he saw the detectives returning in the late afternoon. "You find him?"

"Nope," Marty replied, dropping his notebook on his desk. "He's in the wind."

"We're pretty sure his family is hiding him somewhere," Jim said. "The address he gave his P.O. is his mom's apartment, but she claims she hasn't seen him since he got out."

"No way," Karen said.

"Yeah," Marty agreed, "all of them were definitely hiding something."

"You know," Tom said, "I'm thinkin' Calvin doesn't have a lot of options. I mean, most of the places we went to were walk-ups. How's he gonna get up the stairs?"

"Someone could carry him," Karen pointed out.

"Maybe," Tom conceded.

"What've you got, boss?" Marty asked.

"The lab called while you were gone," Fisk replied. "When they collected Jennings' clothes, they found a slip of paper in his shirt pocket. It had "#1" written on it."

"It wasn't one of those slips – like, 'Inspected by #1'?" Jim asked.

"Doesn't look like it." Fisk frowned before continuing. "And there's something else – Jennings' gun and badge are missing."

"You think he took them as trophies?" Marty asked.

"Could be. Or maybe he's planning to use Jennings' gun on number two. We have to consider the possibility he's targeting everyone who worked his case. Did anyone else in the squad work the case, Jim?"

Jim thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No. Bob Franks was my partner then, but I don't think he ever had any contact with Calvin. Anyway, I heard he moved out West somewhere – Seattle, I think – about five years ago."

Fisk pursed his lips. "All right. I talked to the Chief. He's ordered protection for anyone who might be a target. That includes you, Jim."

"But, boss – " Jim began.

Fisk cut him off. "I don't want to hear it. You don't like it, complain to the Chief." He turned and walked back into his office.

"Jesus, Jim, give it a rest, you're not bulletproof, you know," Marty said. "If anyone should know that, it's you."

Karen gave Marty a disgusted look but said nothing. Tom looked at him reproachfully.

Jim gave an irritated shake of his head, then turned to face Marty. "Thank you for the reminder," he said sarcastically. He gave a dismissive wave of his hand and picked up his earpiece.

Fisk closed his office door behind him. He sat down and leaned back in his chair, thinking. After a minute, he reached for the department phone book. Might as well get it over with, he told himself. He found the listing he was looking for, then picked up the phone and dialed the number of Lieutenant Phil Krause at the 40th Precinct.

He answered on the second ring. "Lieutenant Krause."

"Lieutenant Gary Fisk."

"Yeah? What can I do for you?"

"You heard about Greg Jennings?" Fisk asked.

"Yeah. Terrible, terrible."

"We caught the case," Fisk told him. "We're looking at a guy Greg collared about ten years ago – a Calvin Marshall. Marshall was shot at the time of the arrest."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember him," Krause said. "Punk ended up paralyzed, as I recall."

"That's right," Fisk confirmed.

"And you're looking at him for the murder? I mean, the guy's in a wheelchair, how's he gonna pull off something like that?"

"We don't know yet," Fisk admitted, "but after Jim told us about his case, and we found out he just paroled out two weeks ago – "

"Wait a damn minute," Krause interrupted, "this is one of Dunbar's bright ideas?"

"Well, actually – " Fisk began.

Krause didn't seem to hear him. "Ain't you learned yet? Dunbar's not half as smart as he thinks he is. Hell," he scoffed, "the guy's not even smart enough to get out of the way of a bullet."

"Listen, Phil," Fisk said firmly, "I don't know what your problem is with Jim, but he's done a good job for me."

"Suit yourself," Krause replied. "If you don't mind having that arrogant prick working for you, that's your funeral. Me, I don't have the stomach for it."

"Look, Phil, I didn't call to listen to you bitch about Dunbar. The Chief thinks everyone who worked Marshall's case is at risk. Jennings may only be the first victim. The Chief has ordered protection for everyone involved with the case. Someone will be watching your home, and you're getting a escort to and from the station, until Marshall is back in custody."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No."

"Marshall, he's a cripple, he's no threat to me. You tell the Chief what he can do with his 'protection.'"

"I'm just the messenger, Phil. You got a problem, take it up with the Chief."

"I will," Krause replied, and hung up.

Fisk stared at the silent phone for a moment, then shrugged and hung up. He picked up a report that was awaiting his signature, then put it down again. Something about his conversation with Krause was bothering him. It wasn't Krause's animosity toward Jim – he expected that. It was something else. Finally it came to him. Krause seemed to be trying to deflect their investigation away from Calvin Marshall.

* * *

"Jimmy?" Christie called as she walked in the front door. The apartment was in shadows, except for the foyer, but that didn't mean Jim wasn't there. Lately, he'd been increasingly lax, or forgetful, about turning on the lights for her if he got home first. She sighed. She'd gotten tired of reminding him, but she hated coming home to a dark apartment. Finally, she'd installed a timer on the lamp in the foyer, so the place wouldn't be completely dark when she got home.

"Over here." Jim's voice came from the living room. She crossed the room, turning the lights on as she went. She found him sitting on the couch. She leaned over and kissed him.

"Rough day?" she asked.

"Yeah, you could say that."

"You want to tell me about it?" She sat down next to him.

"A cop got killed."

"Oh, no, that's terrible. Did you know him?"

"He wasn't from our precinct."

"But, still – "

"Yeah." Jim bowed his head. Christie rubbed his shoulder.

"Did you know there's an unmarked across the street?" she asked after a moment.

Jim raised his head. "Uh, a coupla guys from Anti-Crime were headed this way, so they gave me a lift. It must be them. They just dropped me off."

"Oh." Christie looked at Jim, noticing the jeans and T-shirt he was wearing and the empty beer bottle on the coffee table in front of him. It was obvious he'd been home for a while. She gave him a skeptical look, then headed for the bedroom to change out of her work clothes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Cop Killer**

_Chapter Five_

_Wednesday_

"Coffee's ready," Christie said as she walked into the bedroom.

Jim was standing next to the dresser, buttoning his shirt. "Thanks," he said.

Christie glanced out the window. "That same unmarked is still there, across the street," she remarked.

"Oh, really?" he asked, turning to face her.

"Yes, really."

"I got a call – " Jim began, but she interrupted him.

"I didn't hear the phone ring," she pointed out.

"Must've been while you were in the shower," he explained lamely, a sheepish expression on his face.

"Jimmy – " she chided him. "I think you'd better tell me what's really going on."

"OK, OK," Jim said, waving a hand dismissively. "The cop who was killed – you know, I told you about him last night – "

"Yes."

"He was in the same squad with me, when I was at the 3-2. We think his murder may be connected to an old case of his. The Chief thought they should, uh, keep an eye on everyone from my old squad."

"Did you work the case?"

"Not really," Jim replied, "I only talked to the suspect once. It's nothing, honestly."

"Let me get this straight. Someone from your old squad is killed because of a case you worked, and it's 'nothing'?"

Jim sighed. "And you wonder why I didn't tell you?" he asked.

"Oh, no, you're not putting this on me, Jimmy," she retorted.

"I didn't want you to worry – " he began.

"Didn't want me to worry? I already worry about what you do tell me. I don't want to have to worry about what you're not telling me, too."

"Christie – "

"What else have you lied to me about?"

"Nothing. I was just trying to protect you," Jim insisted.

"Protect me?" she demanded. "How are you protecting me by lying to me?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned and stalked out of the room.

Jim called her name, then followed her when she didn't respond. He stopped when he heard the front door close.

* * *

Perched on the desk opposite Jim's, Fisk said, "ME's office called. They found opiates in Greg Jennings' system."

"What's that about?" Karen asked.

Fisk shook his head. "I don't know."

"Did the ME give you anything on time of death?" Marty asked.

"Between midnight and three a.m."

"Looks like Joey Maldonado is alibied out," Tom observed.

"Looks like it," Fisk agreed. "What about Calvin Marshall?" After Marty summarized the previous day's unsuccessful efforts to locate Marshall, the lieutenant frowned, then looked across the desk at Jim. "Something to share, Jim?"

Jim raised his head. "I was thinkin' – I know Calvin looks good for the murder, but I'm wondering about that phone call Greg got. I mean, why'd he take off like that, at midnight?"

"What's your theory?" Fisk asked.

"I don't have one. But I'd like to know how those opiates got into his system."

"You think it was a drug deal gone bad?" Tom asked.

"Could be," Jim said. "I think we need to find out."

"What, you're gonna pull his widow in here and ask her if her husband had a drug problem?" Marty demanded.

"No," Jim replied. "But if he had a problem, I bet his partner knows. When we interviewed him yesterday, it seemed to me like he was holding something back."

"Yeah, maybe," Karen said, sounding doubtful.

"Get him in and find out," Fisk ordered.

Karen escorted Ray Herrera into the interview room. Jim followed, taking his usual place next to the windows. Karen sat at the table, opposite Herrera.

"Thanks for coming in, Ray," she began.

"Anytime. Do you got something?"

"We don't know," she told him. "Maybe you can tell us."

Ray gave her a puzzled look. "What d'you mean?"

Jim spoke up. "The ME found opiates in Greg's system. You know anything about that?"

"No." Herrera shook his head.

"C'mon, Ray," Karen said, "Greg was your partner. You're telling us he was on something, and you didn't know?"

"That's what I'm tellin' you," Herrera insisted.

"Hey, Ray," Jim said quietly, "we understand. You're looking out for your partner. If he was into something that maybe he shouldn't've been, we'll do our best to keep it in the squad." He walked over to the table and stood next to Herrera, close enough to smell the other man's pungent sweat. "But the only thing you can do for Greg now is help us get the son of a bitch who killed him. Keeping quiet isn't gonna help him anymore."

Herrera looked at Karen helplessly, but she merely nodded in support of what Jim had said. "You want us to get his killer, don't you?" she asked.

"Sure. I mean – " Herrera broke off, looking down at his hands on the table top. "Dammit," he muttered.

Karen leaned across the table. "Tell us," she said softy but urgently.

Herrera looked back and forth from Jim to Karen and back again. Finally he said, "Greg had a problem – with his back. He injured it on the job about six months ago. The doc cleared him to go back to work, but he was still in a lot of pain. He was just trying to hang in there – you know, until he could retire, but the doctor wouldn't give him no more pain pills. He said he didn't need them no more." He hung his head.

"You think he was getting pills on the street?" Karen asked.

"I dunno, maybe."

"Who was he getting them from?" Jim asked.

"I don't know, I swear I don't know."

"What about Joey Maldonado?"

"He don't deal."

"But he knows people who do, right?"

Herrera nodded. "Yes," Karen said, for Jim's benefit.

"So he could've put Greg in touch with someone," Jim suggested.

"Yeah, maybe," Herrera conceded.

"Where do we find him?"

"I'll give him a call, set up a meeting." Herrera pulled out his cell phone and dialed. A few minutes later, he hung up the phone. "He'll meet us in an hour, behind the pool hall on 140th."

Jim nodded. "OK. Let's get going."

* * *

Jim shifted impatiently, then checked his watch for the third time. "You sure this guy's gonna show, Ray?" he asked.

"Yeah, yeah," Herrera said, "just give him a little while longer."

Ten minutes later, a slender man in his twenties entered the alley. He wore baggy jeans and a tank top which showed off his tattooed arms. His thick black hair was unruly in the mid-summer heat and humidity. A drooping mustache framed his mouth. A strong aroma of marijuana preceded him. "That him?" Karen asked Herrera in a low voice.

"Yeah," Herrera confirmed. "Hey, Joey."

Maldonado stopped short when he saw the three detectives and Hank. "Hey, man, who's that with you?" he asked. "You didn't say nothin' about no one else being here."

"It's cool, Joey," Herrera assured him. "This is Detective Dunbar – " He indicated Jim. " – and Detective Bettancourt." He indicated Karen. "They're the detectives investigating Greg's murder."

Maldonado stared at Jim and Karen in disbelief. "Yeah, right. Tell me another story."

"No, honest," Herrera insisted.

"A blind guy and a girl? C'mon, man."

Jim turned to Karen. "Let's go," he snapped, "this jerk isn't gonna help us find out who killed Greg." He ordered Hank forward. He only took three steps before Maldonado called out.

"Hey, man, what you want?"

He turned to face Maldonado. "We heard Greg might've been looking for pain pills on the street. You know anything about that?"

Maldonado nodded. "Yeah. He was really hurtin', I could tell. Sometimes he couldn't hardly walk, it hurt so bad. He asked me, could I help him."

"Could you?" Karen asked, "Help him?"

"I tried. I mean, he was always straight with me, always treated me good."

"So you put him in touch with some people who could help him," Jim suggested.

"Yeah, I did. Some guys, they didn't want to deal with him – on account of him bein' a cop, you know – they thought it was a set-up."

"But you vouched for him, right?"

"Right."

"So who was he getting pills from?"

"I dunno – not for sure."

"Dammit, Joey, when're you gonna stop wasting our time?" Jim asked angrily.

"No, man, honest," Maldonado protested, "he didn't tell me."

"But it was one of the guys you sent him to, right?" Karen asked.

"Yeah, I think so."

"So who are they?" She handed him a pen and paper, indicating he should write down their names. Maldonado thought for a moment, then slowly wrote several names on the paper before returning it to Karen.

"Thanks," she said, then turned to Jim. "Let's go."

"Yeah," Jim agreed, and ordered Hank forward.

"Detectives," Maldonado called out.

Jim ordered Hank to stop and turned back to face him. "Yes?" he said.

"I just – I hope you get the guy who done this. Like I said, Detective Jennings always treated me good."

"We will," Jim assured him, before he and Karen headed to the car. Herrera stayed behind to talk to Maldonado for a moment, then met them there.

Karen handed him the list of names. "You know any of them?" she asked.

"No," Herrera replied, "but I'll check with Narcotics and ask around. I'll let you know if I find out anything."

"Thanks for your help. Can we drop you at the precinct?"

"No, thanks. The walk will do me good." When Karen pulled away from the curb, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Herrera was still standing on the sidewalk, looking down at his feet. Then he squared his shoulders and walked away.

* * *

Fisk saw Karen and Jim returning to the squad and stepped out of his office. "You get anything?" he asked.

"Yes, we did, boss," Karen replied, then summarized what she and Jim had learned from Herrera and Maldonado. "Ray's going to run down the dealers for us," she concluded.

"You think that's a good idea?" Marty asked.

"Yeah, I do," Jim said. "It's his precinct, he'll get better results than someone from outside."

"All right," Fisk said, turning to Marty and Tom, "Any leads on Calvin?"

"Nope," Marty replied, shaking his head. "But we're workin' on it."

"OK. Keep me posted," Fisk directed before returning to his office.

When the end of the tour arrived, Jim shut down his computer and slid it into his messenger bag before heading for the locker room. Marty followed. He closed the door behind them before speaking. "You know, Jim, I don't think your idea of a drug deal gone bad is going anywhere."

Jim turned to face him. "Oh, yeah? Why's that?"

"You really think some guy peddling pills is gonna risk shooting a cop?"

"I dunno. Maybe, maybe not. I just don't think we should get tunnel vision at this stage of the investigation."

Marty resisted the temptation to point out that "tunnel vision" was better than none. Instead, he said, "You know what I'm thinking?"

"No, but I'm sure you're gonna tell me," Jim said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"I think you just don't want Calvin to be the shooter."

"And why would I want that?" Jim cocked his head quizzically.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because he's handicapped." Marty didn't add, "like you," but he didn't need to.

Jim could feel the unsaid words, hanging in the air between them. He was too angry to say anything. He gave a disbelieving shake of his head, then turned and walked away quickly, before Marty could say anything else.

Marty watched Jim leave, wondering what was going on with him. Since Jim had joined the squad, he'd become all too familiar with Jim's insistence on following all possible paths in their investigations. But he sensed something different was happening in this case. He didn't know what it was, but he was going to find out.

* * *

Jim closed the front door behind him. After taking off Hank's harness and putting it in its usual place, he called out, "Christie?" There was no answer. The apartment seemed unusually quiet. He crossed the room to the desk and put down his messenger bag, but something was in the way, sitting in the space which was usually left clear. He felt around on the desktop under the bag. His hand found a small oblong object, which he recognized as a dictating machine Christie sometimes used when she worked at home.

He found the "Play" button and pressed it. He heard the hiss of static, followed by Christie's voice. "I won't be coming home tonight, Jimmy. Not tonight, and not for a while. I need some time to myself, to think things through. You can wipe that 'What did I do?' expression off your face, by the way. I'm not here to see it. And besides, you know perfectly well what you did. You lied to me, Jimmy. It doesn't matter that you think you did it with good intentions. I have to be able to trust you again. I can't trust you if you lie to me. Don't call – my cell phone will be turned off – and don't come looking for me." She paused, and when she spoke again, Jim thought he heard a catch in her voice. "Sometimes I wish I could just forget that I love you."

Jim reached out, found the chair and sat down heavily, the tape recorder still in his hand. He sat unmoving for several minutes, replaying Christie's message in his head and trying to make sense of her words. Then he set the tape recorder on the desk, pulled out his cell phone and dialed her number. The call went directly to voice mail. He broke the connection without leaving a message. He rewound the tape and listened again, detaching himself from his emotions as if it were a piece of evidence. He had a pretty good idea where Christie had gone. Her older sister, Catherine, nicknamed "Cat" – he'd always thought the nickname suited her – lived in a spacious apartment on the Upper East Side with her stockbroker husband and eleven-year-old son. If Christie felt she needed a refuge, away from him, that's where she would go.

If Christie had gone to Cat's – and Jim was almost certain she had – that was not good. Cat had never made any secret of her belief that he was not good enough for her little sister. That didn't change when he lost his sight. Being blind was just one more way, in Cat's opinion, that he wasn't good enough for Christie.

Steeling himself to talk to Cat, Jim picked up his phone and dialed her number. She picked up the phone on the third ring.

"Hey, Cat, it's Jim."

"She doesn't want to talk to you." Cat's voice was cold.

"I want to hear that from her," Jim insisted.

"You already did – on the tape," Cat reminded him. "You need to respect her wishes."

"Put her on the phone."

"If she was here – and I'm not saying she is – I wouldn't put her on the phone. I know what will happen if you talk to her. You'll sweet-talk her, like you always do, and she'll give in. That's not what she needs right now."

"And you know this – how?"

"She's my sister. She's been hurting, but you couldn't see it, you self-absorbed bastard. Where Christie is concerned, you were blind long before you lost your eyesight."

Stung by Cat's words, Jim counter-attacked. "Listen, Cat," he said, his voice rough and hoarse, "I know you've never liked me, so let's cut the crap – "

She cut him off. "This isn't about you, Jim. It's about Christie. She needs some time away from you. If you care about her, you'll give her that. Don't call, and don't come here. I mean it."

Faced with Cat's unrelenting animosity, Jim knew there was no point in continuing the conversation. It didn't matter what he said, he wasn't going to win this argument. Not now, anyway. Finally he said, "Just tell her for me – "

"Tell her what?"

"Tell her not to forget."

"What's that mean?"

"She'll know."

"Whatever," Cat replied, then hung up.

Frowning, Jim hung up the phone. "Dammit," he muttered. Automatically, he went to the bedroom to change out of his business suit. He opened the closet door and checked his wife's side of the closet. He was relieved to find not all of her clothes were gone. He stood next to the hanging clothes, distractedly fingering one of her soft sweaters, surrounded by her familiar scent.


	6. Chapter 6

**Cop Killer**

_Chapter Six_

_Thursday_

"Mornin', Jim." Karen greeted her partner, who was pouring a cup of coffee as she entered the locker room.

"Oh. Mornin'," he replied. Instead of heading for his desk, he remained standing next to the coffee maker, absently stirring his coffee.

Karen noticed Jim's distraction and gave him a thoughtful look, then crossed the room to her locker. As she walked past him, she saw his tie was slightly askew, and one of the points of his shirt collar was sticking up. She reached her locker, opened it, and put her belongings inside, then looked over at him. "Uh, Jim," she began.

"Yes?"

She closed the locker door and approached him. "Your tie – it's kinda crooked," she said, keeping her voice low. "May I?"

Jim shrugged. "Sure."

She quickly adjusted his tie and shirt collar, noticing as she did so a small patch of whiskers on his jaw, which he'd apparently missed while shaving. She decided not to mention it. Instead, she asked, "Everything OK?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

Karen frowned and headed for her desk. Jim had something on his mind, she was sure, but she was equally certain he wasn't going to tell her about it.

Jim stirred his coffee again, then followed Karen to his desk. He frowned as he walked down the hall, hating the reminder of Christie's absence. Still, he told himself, he could manage on his own, if he had to. But he didn't want that to happen. So if Christie wanted time, he would give her time. He sighed and pushed his thoughts of his wife into the compartment in his mind labeled "Christie." He had work to do.

After Marty and Tom arrived, Fisk called the squad into his office. "Where are we on Marshall?" he asked.

"Still running down his family and associates," Marty replied. "His P.O. gave us some more names. We're gonna check them out today."

Tom spoke up. "Phone security says the call to Greg's desk phone was placed from a pay phone at Downtown Mercy Medical Center."

"It's gotta be Calvin," Marty asserted. "Guy in a wheelchair, he'd fit right in."

"We're gonna go over there tonight and show Calvin's picture around, see if anyone remembers him," Tom added.

"You're gonna take the pictures of the dealers, too, right?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, sure," Tom replied.

"I gotta ask you, Jim, why would a dealer from uptown come all the way down here to make a sale – especially when Greg's uptown, too?" Marty asked.

"I don't know," Jim admitted, "maybe he hooked up with a dealer from around here."

Marty gave him a skeptical look. "I guess," he said doubtfully.

"This isn't Calvin's neighborhood, either," Jim pointed out.

Marty shrugged and said nothing.

Fisk looked at Marty, then at Jim, before asking, "Karen, Jim, what're you doing?"

"Ray has run down some of the dealers on Joey's list," Karen replied. "We're heading up to the 3-2 to talk to them."

"Anything to add, Jim?"

"No."

"All right. Get going." The squad filed out of Fisk's office.

A few minutes later, Marty stood next to his desk with his arms folded, looking thoughtfully at Jim as he signaled Hank and followed Karen out of the squad.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before Marty and Tom returned to the squad. When Karen noticed their arrival, she leaned toward Jim and whispered, "They're back."

Jim took off his earpiece. "Hey, guys," he said, "you get anything?"

"Nope," Marty answered. He took off his suit jacket and threw it onto his chair before he continued. "All of Calvin's friends and family claim they haven't seen him since he got out. Some of them wanted us to believe they didn't even know he was out. Fuckin' bunch of liars."

"Waste of time," Tom agreed. "You get anything on the dealers?"

"No," Karen said. "They're all alibied out, more or less." Tom gave her a questioning look. "Two of 'em are guys Joey says he was playing pool with – "

Jim completed the sentence, "So they're Joey's alibi, and Joey's theirs."

"Yeah," Karen agreed. "The others all have wives or girlfriends who claim they were at home in bed between midnight and three, but – "

"But let me guess – the wife or the girlfriend was asleep the whole time," Marty said sarcastically.

"You got it," Jim confirmed.

"I'm thinkin' tomorrow we bring in some of the family members, lean on them a little," Marty said.

"Yeah," Tom agreed.

Fisk came out of his office. "The desk just called. There's a guy downstairs who says he wants to talk to us about Greg Jennings' murder. Name's Tyrone Walker. He's on his way up."

Jim stiffened slightly when he heard the name. Karen noticed his reaction. "You know him, Jim?" she asked.

"I remember the name," Jim replied. "He was a witness in Calvin's case. He saw Calvin near the liquor store that was robbed, right before the robbery went down."

Escorted by a uniformed officer, Walker approached the squad room gate. He looked around anxiously, his eyes darting from one place to another.

"You're Tyrone Walker?" Fisk asked.

Walker started when he heard Fisk's voice. "Yeah," he answered. "You the ones working on that cop's murder?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued, the words spilling from him. "Man, you gotta help me, he's gonna kill me, I know – "

Fisk held up a hand. "Hold on," he said, "no one's going to kill you here." He turned to Marty and Tom and nodded. They stood up.

"This way," Tom said, gesturing in the direction of interview room two. Still looking around anxiously, Walker followed them into the interview room. Marty closed the door behind him. Karen and Jim followed Fisk into the observation room.

Seated across the table from Tom, Walker drummed his fingers against the table top as he scanned the room with his eyes. About the same height as Marty, with a wiry build, he looked to be in his mid-forties. His close-cropped hair was thinning, and his mustache and goatee were sprinkled with gray. His clothes hung loosely on him, as if he'd recently lost weight. Below his shirt sleeves, several tattoos were visible on his forearms.

"What's this all about, Tyrone?" Tom began.

"You know that cop who got hisself killed a coupla days ago?" Walker asked. Tom nodded. "I know who done it. And he's gonna come after me, too, I know it. You gotta help me." He looked pleadingly at the two detectives.

"All right," Tom said. "Just calm down. Who's gonna come after you?"

"This dude – uh, that cop who got killed, he shot this dude a while back. He was in prison, but I just heard today he got out. He capped that cop, sure as shit, and he's gonna do me next, I know it."

"This dude got a name?" Tom asked.

"Calvin Marshall."

Marty spoke up from the end of the table. "We already know about Calvin. You know where he is?" Walker shook his head.

"Why's he got it out for you?" Tom asked.

"I was a witness – at his trial, you know," Walker replied. "I said he was there, at the liquor store that got robbed." He looked down at his hands and muttered, "Shit." Then he continued, "But it was a set-up. Calvin didn't do no robbery."

Marty and Tom looked at each other. "So who did do the robbery?" Marty asked.

"My cuz."

"He got a name?"

"Jamaal Harrison."

"Where do we find this Jamaal?"

"You can't. He's dead – got capped a coupla years ago."

"So Jamaal set it up for Calvin to go down for the robbery?" Tom asked.

Walker shook his head emphatically. "No, no," he said, "it wasn't Jamaal. It was this other cop. Jamaal was his snitch. He worked with that cop who got killed. He didn't want Jamaal to go down for the robbery, 'cause he didn't want to lose his snitch."

In the observation room, Fisk and Karen exchanged startled looks. Jim turned away from them and muttered, "Damn."

"This other cop got a name?" Marty asked.

"Phil something."

"Krause?"

"Yeah, that's it. I went to see him this morning, he's some kinda boss or somethin' now, I told him he had to help me, but he just blew me off. He told me Calvin's a cripple, I got nothin' to worry about. But he capped that cop, right?"

"We're thinkin' maybe he did," Marty confirmed. "So how'd he get set up?"

"Jamaal and this Phil, they come to me. They told me Jamaal knocked over this liquor store, but they couldn't let him go down for it. So they found a guy – turned out it was Calvin – he looked like Jamaal, so they popped him for it. That other cop, he shot Calvin. I guess Calvin was supposed to get killed – you know, 'resisting arrest' – but he ended up crippled instead."

"Where did you come in?" Marty asked.

"Phil, he planted Jamaal's gun and the money from the liquor store on Calvin. But he said they needed a witness – you know, someone to say Calvin was there, at the liquor store. He told me I had to testify so Calvin would go down for the robbery."

In the observation room, Jim frowned and muttered, "Son of a bitch." Fisk gave him a hard look.

"Why'd you do it?" Marty asked.

Walker looked down at his hands again. "Phil, he had some – stuff, you know, on me – " he mumbled.

Fisk walked past Karen, out of the observation room. He crossed to the door of the interview room, opened it partway, and leaned in. "I need you two for a minute," he told Tom and Marty.

"Just sit tight," Tom directed Walker as he followed Marty out of the room and closed the door behind them.

Karen and Jim followed Fisk out of the observation room. "Jim, my office," Fisk ordered.

Marty stared at Jim as he made his way to the lieutenant's office. After the office door closed, he turned to Karen. "So what d'you think of your partner now?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"You think he was in on the set-up?"

"Absolutely not," she snapped.

"Bah," Marty spat disgustedly. He gave Karen a skeptical look, then threw his pen onto his desk and sat down.

"Close it," Fisk ordered after Jim entered his office. Jim closed the door and turned to face the lieutenant, holding the back of one of the chairs.

"Did you know about this?" Fisk asked sternly.

"What Tyrone just said?" Jim shook his head. "No. Calvin claimed he was set up, but – " He shrugged.

Fisk finished the sentence for him. " – but the prisons are full of innocent guys who were framed."

"Yeah."

"You believe Tyrone's story?"

"I do," Jim confirmed.

"Is Phil Krause capable of something like that?"

"Absolutely."

"You didn't suspect anything – at the time, I mean?" Fisk asked.

"I did," Jim replied, "but that's all I had – suspicions. I was on Phil's shit list from day one, so he never let me in on – " He frowned, and Fisk noticed his grip tighten on the chair back, before he continued, " – you know, stuff. I never had anything solid to go on, at the time."

"So you transferred."

"Yeah," Jim agreed, "I didn't want to get sucked in." He turned away for a moment, then turned back to face Fisk and asked, "So what happens now?"

Fisk sighed heavily. "I gotta call IAB."

"I know. What about Tyrone?"

"He'll be safer in custody as long as Calvin's in the wind. After we collar Calvin, the DA can decide what to do about Tyrone. But I'm guessing they won't file charges against him for perjury or obstruction. It was too long ago."

Jim thought for a moment, pressing his lips together, then nodded.

"All right," Fisk said. "That's all."

As Jim turned to leave, Fisk stopped him. "One other thing," he said, "You know IAB is going to want to talk to you about this."

"Yeah. I know."

Fisk leaned back in his chair and watched thoughtfully as his blind detective left the office and made his way back to his desk. He noticed Marty looking pointedly at Jim as he crossed the room in his usual deliberate way. Fisk sighed. When he'd looked into Phil Krause a few months back, he'd heard whispers about the way Krause cleared cases. But no one he talked to had given him anything concrete. All he'd gotten, really, was a lot of hearsay and gossip. Still, he was pretty sure Jim wasn't telling him the whole story about his time at the 3-2. And he'd been puzzled by Jim's insistence on pursuing his theory that Jennings was killed during a drug deal gone bad. Now it looked as if Jim, like Krause, had been trying to move the focus of the investigation away from Calvin Marshall. Well, Fisk told himself, Jim wouldn't be the first cop who had something to hide. Resignedly, he reached for the phone to call IAB.


	7. Chapter 7

**Cop Killer**

_Chapter Seven_

_Friday_

"Mornin'," Tom said as he entered the locker room.

Marty finished pouring a cup of coffee, then looked up and greeted his partner. "Mornin'," he replied. He poured some sugar into his coffee and stirred it as he followed Tom to his locker. "Hey, Tom," he began. Tom closed the locker door and turned to face him. "What d'you think's up with Dunbar?"

"What d'you mean?"

Marty gave him an impatient look. "C'mon, Tom, you know what I mean – what Tyrone said yesterday. You think Dunbar was in on the set-up?"

"No," Tom said, shaking his head emphatically. "No way."

"How can you be so sure?" Marty asked. "Look at the way he tried to steer us away from Calvin."

"Nah, that's just Jim being Jim. You know how he is."

"You got that right," Marty agreed with a pained half-smile.

"Besides, remember what Jim told us when he got transferred to the 4-0?"

"What's that?"

"He said Phil Krause had it in for him from day one when they were both at the 3-2. Krause wouldn't let him in on something like that."

"Maybe," Marty reluctantly conceded. "But it still looks to me like he's covering up something. And how're we supposed to know? It's not like you can look the guy in the eye and tell if he's lying."

"C'mon, man, we've worked with the guy for two years – we know what kind of cop he is. That's good enough for me."

"That's now," Marty pointed out. "But how do we know what kind of a cop he was – you know, before? Maybe he's changed more than we know."

Tom shook his head. "I'm not buyin' it."

"I'm just sayin'," Marty insisted, "the guy's so damn secretive, I bet there's a lot we don't know – " He broke off when Tom shook his head and held up a hand.

"Mornin', Jim," Tom said.

"Morning, Dunbar," Marty added.

"Hey, Tom, Marty," Jim replied, crossing to his locker.

"See you in a minute," Tom said. He looked pointedly at Marty.

"Yeah," Marty said, adding, "Let's get going. Calvin ain't gonna just roll in the front door," before he followed Tom out of the locker room.

Jim stood at his locker, listening to the fading sounds of their footsteps. He was pretty sure he'd interrupted a conversation when he came into the locker room, and he was pretty sure what the subject of that conversation was. He could hear the wariness in Tom's and Marty's voices and feel their suspicion. To hell with it, he thought irritably. They were going to think what they were going to think. He didn't owe them any explanations.

* * *

Fisk stepped out of his office. "Marty and Tom still out looking for Calvin?" he asked. 

"Yes," Karen confirmed.

"All right." Fisk pursed his lips, then continued. "The front desk called. An Annabelle Parker is downstairs. She says she needs to talk to someone about Calvin Marshall. They're bringing her up now."

"OK, boss, we got it," Karen said. A few moments later, a heavyset woman in her fifties approached the gate, escorted by a uniformed officer. Karen recognized her as Calvin's mother, whom they had interviewed three days before. Her knitted purple top and tight black jeans emphasized her ample figure. Her hair was in cornrows, pulled back into a ponytail. She looked around the squad room with a mixture of apprehension and bafflement. Like many suspects' mothers Karen had encountered, she seemed unable to fathom how her son's life had gone so terribly wrong.

"Annabelle Parker?" Fisk asked.

"Yes," she confirmed.

Karen stood up and turned to Jim. "Interview room one." She crossed the room to meet Annabelle and escort her to the interview room. Jim followed.

Karen sat across from Annabelle at the table, while Jim stood next to the windows. "You have something to tell us about Calvin that you didn't mention when we talked to you the other day?" she asked.

"Yes."

"What is it?" Karen prompted her.

"I know you think he shot that cop," Annabelle began. "I know he can't hide forever, and you're gonna bring him in. But I don't want to see him get killed, you know, 'resisting arrest.' You gotta promise me he'll be safe."

Jim spoke up. "That's not up to us, ma'am, it's up to Calvin. We'll do our best to bring him in peacefully, but that's all we can promise you. If he gets violent, we're going to defend ourselves. You have to understand that."

"I do. But my Calvin's not a violent boy – not really – not even after what they did to him – you know, when he was arrested before."

"If that's true, then you have nothing to worry about."

"If he's changed, if he's – different now, it's because of what you people did to him."

Karen leaned across the table toward Annabelle. "So where is he?" she asked.

"At his stepbrother's."

Karen pushed a pad and pen across the desk and waited as Annabelle wrote down the name and address. "Why'd he go there?" she asked after she retrieved the pad and pen and glanced at the information.

"It was the only place he _could_ go. The building has an elevator."

"Does he have a gun?" Jim asked.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," Annabelle wailed, "don't let them kill my boy."

"Does he have a gun?" Jim repeated, more forcefully.

"I don't know," she whispered, "maybe."

"Thank you, Ms. Parker," Jim said, "you're free to go."

Karen stood and escorted Annabelle to the door, where she turned back to face Jim. "You remember your promise, Detective," she reminded him.

"I will."

Fisk emerged from the observation room as Jim closed the door of the interview room behind him. Karen watched Annabelle walk down the hall, then turned back toward Fisk. She handed him the pad on which Annabelle had written the address of an apartment building on West 133rd Street. He glanced at it, then said, "I'll call Neil Snyder at the 3-2. You call Marty and Tom, let them know, and tell them a team from the 3-2 will meet them there."

"You got it, boss," Karen replied.

* * *

Two hours later, Tom and Marty returned to the squad, following a uniformed officer pushing a wheelchair in which Calvin Marshall was seated, handcuffed. "Interview room two," Marty directed, indicating its location.

Fisk came out of his office. After the officer pushed Marshall's wheelchair into the interview room and closed the door, the lieutenant asked, "What've you got?"

"That's Calvin Marshall," Tom began.

"Obviously," Marty interrupted.

Tom gave his partner an annoyed look, then continued, "He hasn't said much. He claims he's been staying at his stepbrother's apartment since he got out."

"Can he account for his whereabouts Monday night?"

"He says he was at the apartment all night, but the stepbrother – a Deon Parker – had to work an early shift Tuesday morning, so he went to bed early. Deon says he was asleep by ten, slept straight through to five the next morning."

"Anything from the search of the apartment?"

"Not yet," Marty replied, "but they're still looking."

"OK," Fisk said. "Karen, Jim, you take it." Marty gave Fisk a questioning look, but his only response was to head for the observation room. Tom and Marty followed him. Jim put on his dark glasses and followed Karen to the interview room.

When the door to the interview room opened, Calvin turned his head and watched Karen and Jim enter the room and sit down across from him at the table. Karen wondered how much he'd changed since Jim interviewed him ten years before. The well-developed muscles of his arms and shoulders bulged under his T-shirt. She guessed they were more from propelling his wheelchair than from workouts in the prison weight room. Baggy jeans concealed his atrophied legs. His head was shaved, and his skin was sallow, probably the result of his years in prison. But unusually for someone who'd been in prison for almost ten years, he had only one tattoo that she could see – a snake coiled around his left wrist. His large brown eyes were clear, but cold. She wondered if his eyes had been that cold ten years ago. He stared across the table at Jim, as if trying to place him. Then he blurted out, "Hey, man, I remember you. You were at the hospital after I was shot."

"That's right," Jim confirmed.

"What's wrong with your eyes?"

"I got shot," Jim replied curtly.

"You, too, huh?"

Jim turned away and didn't respond. Karen gave him a quick look, then _Mirandized_ Calvin. Before she could ask her first question, he said to Jim, "I was set up, man, you know I was, I told you when you was at the hospital."

When Jim didn't answer him, Karen did. "We know," she said quietly.

"What you mean?"

"We talked to Tyrone Walker yesterday," she explained. "He told us about the set-up."

"Damn," Calvin muttered. "That lyin' sack of shit – " He clenched his fist and looked away for a moment. When he looked back at Karen, he said, "Wait a minute. You know I was set up. So what you want with me?"

Jim spoke up. "You think that gives you a free pass for killing a cop, Calvin?" He shook his head, answering his own question. "It doesn't work that way."

"No, man, I didn't kill no cop," Calvin insisted. "Ask Deon, he'll tell you, I was at home the night that cop got killed. I ain't had nothin' to do with that."

"The other detectives talked to Deon," Karen told him. "He can't confirm you were there. He was in bed, asleep. You could have left without him knowing, easy. You don't have an alibi."

"And you've got a hell of a motive for killing him," Jim pointed out. "You expect us to believe it's just a coincidence that the cop who shot you was killed two weeks after you got out?"

"That's what it is," Calvin insisted, "a co-in-ci-dence." He thrust his jaw forward stubbornly and folded his arms.

"You gotta understand something, Calvin," Jim told him. "A cop is dead. You know what that means?"

"No, man, what that mean?" Calvin sneered.

"It means his killer's going down."

"What, you gonna frame me again?"

"Don't get stupid with me," Jim snapped. "We know you killed him. So you can do this the easy way, or you can do this the hard way."

"Yeah? Don't no way look easy to me, not from where I'm sittin'."

"Then let me lay it out for you. You kill a cop and go to trial, you get the death penalty. It's that simple. You want to live, you need to own up to what you did."

Calvin shook his head. "No way, man," he said. "I say I did it, I'm still gettin' the needle."

In the observation room, Fisk frowned and shook his head, then pushed past Tom and Marty and returned to his office. Ten minutes later, he knocked on the door to the interview room. "I need you two," he told Jim and Karen. They left the interview room, both looking frustrated. Tom and Marty joined them. "He's not budging, boss," Karen reported. "We need some leverage before we go at him again."

"What about the search?" Marty suggested. "They find anything?"

"Yeah," Fisk answered, "Neil Snyder just called from the 3-2. They found Jennings' gun and badge in the apartment."

"Where?" Jim asked.

"Under the mattress."

Calvin looked up when he saw Karen and Jim returning to the interview room. "Can I go now, detectives?" he asked.

"Nice try," Karen told him. She stood next to him and leaned over his shoulder. "You know what they found at Deon's apartment?"

"No – but I'll bet you're gonna tell me."

"Detective Jennings' badge and gun."

"How – ?" Calvin began, then caught himself.

Karen finished the question for him. "How'd we find them? We looked under the mattress where you hid them. Did you think we weren't gonna look there?" she asked scornfully.

Calvin looked down at his hands. "Fuck," he muttered. He seemed to shrink into his chair. Finally, he gave a deep sigh. "All right," he said.

"What happened?" Karen asked.

"After I got out, I found out that cop who shot me, whatshisname, Jennings, was still working at the same police station, but I didn't know how I was gonna get to him. Then I heard – on the street, you know – that he was lookin' to buy some pills. So I called him and told him I had some. He wanted them, like, right away, so I told him to meet me in the park here, over by the river."

"Why there?" Karen asked.

"I scoped it out last week. It looked like a good place, you know, not too many people around late at night. And it was easy for me to get to."

"OK. So he met you in the park. What then?"

"He didn't recognize me at first. So I put one round in him, not to kill him, just take him down, so I could tell him why, before I capped him. Then you know what? I had to tell him who I was." He gave a bitter laugh. "He put me in this fuckin' chair," he snarled, "and the son of a bitch didn't even remember me. I waited ten fuckin' years to smoke the dude." He glanced across the table at Jim and added, "_You_ know what I'm sayin', man."

Jim didn't respond, but Karen saw his jaw tighten as he turned his face away. She glared at Calvin and snapped, "Stuff it." Calvin leaned back in his chair, his arms folded, and glared back at her.

An hour later, Calvin was finished with his statement. Jim and Karen left him in the interview room and returned to their desks. Karen glanced over at her partner. Jim looked drained – as drained as she felt. She knew Calvin was a cold-blooded killer – or that was what he had become – but she couldn't help thinking that, in some ways, he was a victim, too. She was pretty sure what Jim would say about that, so she kept her thoughts to herself. Still, she wondered how Jim felt about his role in the events which had made Calvin what he was.

* * *

Pretending not to notice Tom's warning glance, Marty followed Jim to the locker room at the end of the day. He found Jim standing next to his open locker. "You still don't get it, do you?" he demanded. Jim closed his locker door and leaned back against it, his arms folded. When Marty realized Jim wasn't going to respond, he continued. "You knew Calvin was set up," he asserted. "You didn't think that was relevant to the investigation?" 

Jim shook his head. "I didn't _know_ anything," he replied, "not until we talked to Tyrone yesterday."

"Calvin said he told you," Marty pointed out.

"He did," Jim agreed, "him and a lot of other guys. You've never had a perp claim he was set up?"

"Yeah, but – "

Jim waved a hand to cut him off. "It didn't matter if the shooting was righteous or not. Calvin had a motive, either way."

"I guess," Marty conceded. "So you're telling me you didn't know what kinda cop Phil Krause is?"

"Like I told you before, Phil had it out for me from day one. I got outta there as soon as I could."

"I know, but – "

Jim frowned. "Dammit, Marty, I don't owe you an explanation. I'm telling you, I didn't withhold anything relevant to the investigation. End of story." He started to walk away.

"Just a damn minute," Marty snapped. "You don't think me and Tom and Karen deserve to know who we're working with?"

Jim stopped and turned to face him. "You know, Marty, if you haven't figured that out in two years, you're not as smart as I thought you were." He turned away and walked toward the door.

"Thanks for nothin'," Marty growled at Jim's back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Cop Killer**

_Chapter Eight_

_Monday_

Jim woke up before his alarm sounded. He was almost relieved that the work week was beginning. It had been a long weekend, with – he hated to admit it – frequent reminders of how much he relied on Christie now. He could – and did – manage on his own when he needed to, but there was no getting around the fact that Christie made his life a lot easier. He wasn't sure, he thought wryly, how much longer he could survive on take-out. He hadn't been much of a cook when he could see, and he still wasn't, even after the cooking classes he'd had in rehab.

All weekend long, it seemed he couldn't leave the apartment without encountering someone who'd noticed Christie's absence and invariably asked him if he needed help. He told them all she was "out of town on business" and he was fine, thanks very much. On Saturday evening, he retreated to a neighborhood bar frequented by serious drinkers who, he knew from experience, would leave him alone. He spent most of a rainy Sunday afternoon at home, listening to a baseball game on the radio. The Yankees' twelfth-inning loss at Cleveland did nothing to improve his mood.

Mostly, though, he missed his wife. Their relationship would never be easy, but there had always been a strong connection between them – strong enough to keep them together in spite of his infidelity and blindness. And after a year and a half of couples therapy, he'd thought the worst times in their marriage were behind them – until now.

Over the weekend, he'd left several messages on Christie's voice mail, but she hadn't returned his calls. When he finally gave in and called Cat on Sunday night, she hung up when she heard his voice. He knew he couldn't let this go on much longer. He wasn't sure how long Christie could stand up to Cat's constant harping on his shortcomings and the burdens of being married to a blind man. He could almost hear Cat telling Christie she had done more than anyone expected of her, he took her for granted, and no one would blame her if she thought of herself, for once. He threw off the covers and headed for the shower, telling himself he'd find a way to convince her to come home. He just wasn't sure how.

* * *

The squad spent the morning doing follow-up and finishing their reports on Jennings' murder. At mid-morning, the phone on Jim's desk rang. "Eighth squad, Dunbar," he answered. A moment later, he said, "Yes, sir," and hung up.

Karen stopped what she was doing and looked at him. "What was that about?" she asked.

Jim shrugged. "I'm not sure. The Chief wants to see me in his office. He's sending a car for me."

A few minutes later, a uniformed officer walked into the squad room. "Detective Dunbar?" he asked.

"Right here." Jim stood up and signaled to Hank, then followed the officer out of the squad room. Karen watched him go, a worried look on her face. Marty looked pointedly at Tom, who shrugged noncommittally and looked away.

On the way to One PP, Jim's mind raced as he ran through a mental list of the possible reasons for the Chief's summons. This couldn't be good. He guessed it had something to do with the case, but what? He doubted Tunney had called him in to congratulate him on clearing the case. He gave a mental shrug. He'd find out soon enough.

After a ten-minute wait in the Chief's reception room, Jim heard Tunney calling his name. He stood and ordered Hank forward, in the direction of the Chief's voice, and followed Tunney into his office. After Tunney closed the door behind them, he said, "Have a seat, Detective, there's a chair right in front of you."

Jim reached out, found the chair, and sat down. Hank sat next to him. "Thanks, Chief," he replied.

"I've been following Greg Jennings' murder closely," Tunney began, "terrible thing, just terrible."

"Yes, sir," Jim said guardedly.

"You worked with him when you were at the 3-2, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did," Jim replied, wondering where Tunney was going with this.

"As you know, IAB has been looking into the circumstances surrounding the shooting of Calvin Marshall ten years ago." Jim nodded but said nothing. Tunney pursed his lips, then continued, "Lieutenant Krause has agreed it's best for him to take 'early retirement.' Jennings' widow and children don't need to know about what he was mixed up in."

Jim turned away for a moment, thinking. When he faced Tunney again, he replied, "No, sir, they don't. But what about Calvin Marshall's trial?"

Tunney gave Jim an impatient look. "There isn't going to _be_ a trial, Detective." Noticing Jim's puzzled expression, he explained, "Calvin confessed to killing a cop. Pleading guilty is the only way he can avoid the death penalty. If he brings up what happened ten years ago, all he does is give himself a motive. He wants to save his sorry ass, he'll shut up and plead guilty."

Jim considered this for a moment, then started to ask Tunney whether the DA was going along with the deal. He stopped himself when he realized he already knew the answer. Calvin wasn't the only suspect Krause had set up. Every conviction the DA had gotten in Krause's cases could be in doubt. Of course the DA would go along. He nodded to himself, then asked, "And what about Tyrone Walker?"

"He was released first thing this morning," Tunney replied. "The DA says they can't charge him – something about the statute of limitations. But Tyrone doesn't know that. He kept his mouth shut for ten years to cover his ass. He's not gonna talk now."

"Probably not," Jim agreed.

Frowning, Tunney scrutinized Jim for a moment, then continued, "One other thing, Detective, this stays in house – all of it. I don't want to read about any of this in the newspapers, so don't go running to your buddies in the press."

Jim began to protest, "I don't have any 'buddies' in – "

Tunney cut him off. "You're in no position to make waves, Detective," he said. "You were in the same squad with Phil Krause and Greg Jennings, you worked Calvin Marshall's case, too."

"I'm aware of that, _sir_," Jim replied.

"I wouldn't want that information to end up in the hands of – certain people," Tunney observed. "We wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea, would we?"

Jim nodded grimly. "So that's how it is."

"Yes," Tunney confirmed, "that's how it is. We understand each other, right?"

"We do."

"All right. That's all, Detective."

Jim stood up, grasped Hank's harness, and left the Chief's office without another word.

Sitting in the unmarked on the way back to the 8th Precinct, Jim considered what had just happened. Tunney's swift damage control didn't surprise him. He knew how these things worked. The Department couldn't take another hit to its public image. But Tunney was wrong about him – he wouldn't break ranks over this. No matter what happened ten years ago, Calvin killed a cop. He had to pay for that. Still, it rankled that Krause was getting off so easy. And he would have to be careful not to get sideways with Tunney. He hadn't been part of Krause's dirty schemes, but guilt by association was a powerful weapon. He shrugged. He never expected it to be easy.

Marty was the first to spot Jim and Hank returning to the squad. "Hey, Jim," he asked, "what'd the Chief want? You getting transferred again?"

Jim released Hank and stopped next to Marty's desk. "Nope." He shook his head, then added, with a little grin, "Sorry to disappoint you."

"Just keeping hope alive," Marty shot back. "So what was that about?"

Jim ignored the question and resumed walking to his desk. After he found his chair and sat down, he scratched Hank's ears, then reached for his earpiece and went back to work on the report which had been interrupted by the call from the Chief's office. Karen looked at him curiously but said nothing. Marty gave Tom a knowing look and pointed at him. Tom rolled his eyes resignedly.

As the end of the tour approached, Fisk came out of his office, looking solemn.

Karen noticed him first. "What's up, boss?" she asked.

Fisk crossed the room and sat on the desk next to Jim's before he answered. Finally he said, "Corrections just called. Calvin Marshall's dead."

Jim sat up straight. "Dead?" he asked. "How?"

"He got shanked in the day room of his module at Rikers," Fisk said. "Forty guys, and no one saw anything." He shook his head.

"Yeah," Marty said, "and it's not like Corrections is gonna bust their tails finding out who offed a cop killer."

"You got that right," Tom agreed.

"Damn," Jim muttered. He turned away from the others and bowed his head.

Fisk glanced at him, frowning, then said, "You can call it a day when you finish up your fives." He stood and returned to his office, closing the door behind him.

The end of the tour finally arrived. Jim headed for the subway, but instead of taking the train home to Brooklyn, he went uptown, to Cat's apartment on the Upper East Side. He and Christie needed to talk – and it was time to get her away from Cat.

Cat opened the apartment door partway in response to Jim's knock, then stopped when she saw him and Hank. "I told you not to come here," she said, "she doesn't want to see you."

Before Jim could answer, Christie's voice came from behind her sister. "It's all right, Cat."

Cat turned toward her. "Christie – " she began.

"I said it's all right," Christie repeated more firmly.

Cat gave an exaggerated sigh. "Suit yourself." She opened the door all the way and stepped back grudgingly to allow Jim and Hank to enter.

"Hey," Jim said.

"Hey," Christie answered him, then turned toward her sister. "Would you excuse us, please, Cat?"

Cat didn't reply, but Jim heard her footsteps leaving the room.

"Did Cat give you my message?' he asked.

"Yes. She told me."

He smiled at her, a little tentatively, before asking, "So how's that 'forgetting' thing working out for you?"

"Not very well," she admitted.

"Christie, I – " he began.

"Jimmy, I – " she began simultaneously. After an awkward pause, she said, "You first."

Jim bit his lip and turned away from her. When he turned to face her again, he said, "Cat said you were – hurting, you'd been hurting for a while, but I couldn't see it. Was she right?"

Christie looked away, uncertain how to answer him. Finally she said, "Yes – and no." In response to Jim's questioning expression, she explained, "I wasn't hurting, not like I was before. But there are some things you never really get over. You just try to put them behind you and move on. I thought I'd done that, but – maybe I haven't, not really. . . and then when you lied to me about the case – it all came back to me. I couldn't be with you, I had to get away."

Jim bowed his head. When he raised his head, he said, "I'm – sorry. I know how important me being honest is to you. I just – sometimes there are things about my job you don't need to know – you know, the ugly stuff."

"I understand you want to shield me from the ugly parts of your job," she told him. "But you can't – not really. And even if you could, you can't protect me by lying to me."

"I know."

"Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to trust you again, after – ?" she asked.

Jim nodded gravely. "I do."

Christie was about to snap back that he couldn't possibly know, but she stopped herself. Of course he knew. Trust had never come easily to Jim. His work as a cop had made it even harder for him to trust. But losing his sight had forced him to trust other people – sometimes total strangers – to tell him about things he couldn't see for himself. She sighed, then said, "I know." She reached out and rubbed his shoulder.

He held out his hand and said, "Come home with me – please."

She looked at her husband closely while she considered her decision. Finally she took his hand and said, "Let's go home."

_The End_


End file.
